


Indiscriminate Aeroplane Trails

by bbcsherlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:10:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcsherlockian/pseuds/bbcsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something connects us but it is as tangible as the air being released from your nose in short huffs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indiscriminate Aeroplane Trails

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware I haven't written in a long time! A levels tend to take up a lot of my time nowadays. This is just a little self-indulgent interlude; I'll be back on regular posting schedle for my proper fics asap.

It’s often I feel that I should be expressing my sentiments, if for no other purpose than to track my own progression, but I have no idea how - when one initially places pen to paper - to form words that take the shape of the sense of colour and restless urgency inside my mind. It’s him, you see. Forming pathways between my synapses that have never previously even thought to touch one another. Creating bridges that I can never burn down. Because, you understand, with the pretence of erasure, I can convince myself that I am wholler, more capable of intellect and power. I’m no longer weakened by those anchoring thoughts which no words seem to accompany; it’s merely the long, drawn out vowel-sound of the letter ‘u’, stretching and interlocking itself among it’s own timeless footpaths until it no longer becomes intelligible, bursting into light greens and the smell of coffee. I draw your attention - ‘your’; I speak as if I have an audience in mind and yet this is for me to revisit alone-- I draw your attention to my use of the word ‘pretence’ because, if I am to be successful in deleting any scrap of hungry, space-consuming information, I must first simply convince myself that it is not worth saving.

There are so many doors and they’re all slammed shut and bolted and secured with 9-digit pin codes that I have thrown somewhere else, misplaced with an intention of forgetting. So many doors and they’re all hardwood, dark brown, brimming with secrets and things that I have kept but things that I refuse to allow myself to return to, nonetheless. Yet sometimes he will say a sentence or three; or I’ll compare the delicate colour-map of his eyes to a sky beyond a city I once saw; or I’ll smell the sharp tang of the whisper of a gunshot and compare it to the bland wash of his milky teas. There-- there’s the place we lose ourselves to adrenaline because he drops a key somewhere in the back of my skull (does he know he does it?) and I start suddenly within myself; I move to catch the falling thing before it accidentally finds its snug home and turns the springs and stop-plates and tumblers of an untouched padlock. 

I’m never sure if I want to catch it or if I want to see what will happen if I don’t. 

Come to think of it, I’m not sure of a lot of things. Predominantly, I’m not sure whether the settled feeling at the base of my ribcage is happiness or unhappiness or discontentment or contentment or mere apathy. I’m not sure whether here is the safe place or not. Perhaps the safe place is closer to him - closer and closer so that both of us can barely breathe - or perhaps it is much further from where I’m standing already. I’m not actually sure whether the safe place exists and, if it does, I’m not sure that either of us want it so precisely. After all, we seem to have both been born with the bittersweet flavour of ‘dangerous’ residing at the base of our tongues, with claws in our fists and the ghost-fingerprints of starlight painted into the inside of our eyelids. 

Maybe I need you to tell me you want me. Maybe I need to tell you I want you. Maybe there is nothing left for us to articulate. 

“I need you here,” I could scream into the darkness of my blank-wall. “I need you here and more here than you are currently, which is only marginally more into the present of me but it would give my heart palpitations in morse that would remind me why I am here at all.”

I have been unaffected thus far. I can remain unaffected - I am certain of myself - if I could only give my mind more space and perhaps more time to teach my bones and my flesh. I could school myself into submission and detachment if I wanted to but perhaps I’m fighting myself too hard. Perhaps there are some synapses that I am failing to find, subtly flaring with muted light with every beat of my pulse. It’s only now that I realise this isn’t enough. 

(Is this enough?)

(“It could be,” Someone replies and it sounds like your voice.)

(That’s not fair. That’s not what I want.)

A pause. The glowing flares until it desists. No more time than necessary. 

(Is it what you want?)

Nothing but the silent yelling and cursing of this understated harmony. Nothing replies and I can’t find it within myself to fill in the blanks so I am left here, standing in the dark spot of a great swirling redness. Standing where the light doesn’t touch and just barely starting to stretch out my (blind) hands.


End file.
